


our house

by leradny



Category: Justice League Dark (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Magical laws, Shadowcrest aka the Zatara Family Home, Technically a Crossover, Underage Drinking, but still pretty tame for john constantine, does it count as a rarepair if one character HASN'T EVEN BEEN INTRODUCED TO YOUNG JUSTICE, mentions of weed, most nerdy thing i have ever written, tons and tons of lying, zee is a rebellious teen, zee's family are all witches and wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-14 00:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leradny/pseuds/leradny
Summary: Thanks to the complexity surrounding magical inheritance of her ancestral home, Zatanna is temporarily homeless after her father is possessed by Doctor Fate. She deals with it by getting drunk with John Constantine.





	1. my place

It’s ten in the evening when Zatanna comes to visit. John knows who’s calling before he answers the door, because 1) a flurry of glitter and light squeezes past the threshold, and 2) Zatanna shouts his name instead of knocking.

“John!” She pulses with rage and fear and sorrow. John opens the door before Zee can magic it open. “I need a drink.”

Now this is a tricky one. Giovanni was an alcoholic after Zatanna’s mother died. Not something Zatanna talked about–John figured that out himself. Someone that straight-laced and devout at Giovanni’s age? Obviously regretted something. The hard part is steering Zatanna away from it without John letting off that he knows something that she never told him. A family ought to be able to keep a few secrets, especially ugly ones.

“Mind if I ask why?” She shakes her head viciously and barges past. Not something unusual, but in this case John really feels obligated. Especially since he has to teleport in front of her. “Whoa, now. If you’re going to empty my fridge, you at least owe me a reason.”

“I’m not going to empty your fridge.” Zee leans on the doorframe. Now that her anger’s been checked, John sees she’s been crying. “Just one, I promise.” Even her words hearken to budding alcoholism.

“One, a hundred.” John shrugs. “Just tell me why, and it’s a deal.”

“My dad’s possessed. Forever.”

“Ah.” One drink is deserved in that case. John flourishes and the fridge opens behind him. “Take your pick, love.”

She traces her fingers along the bottles and stops on the whiskey. John flicks at it and it changes to one of the cheap ones.

“I felt that.” Zatanna mutters something and it changes back to whiskey. “If I’m going to have one drink, I’ll make it count.”

“But you didn’t have to  _keep_  that promise.”

This makes her cry.

John shuts up.

 

\- - -

 

They sit across from each other on the floor, legs crossed and shots to their respective lefts. The whiskey passes back and forth as John does what he does best: Bullshit his way out of a situation that might turn ugly. (Uglier.)

If Zatanna’s dad hadn’t sort of died, John wouldn’t even feel guilty about putting on the charm. Zee’s worldly for her age. Once, John took Zatanna to a party for magic people and those in the know. When the weed came out, she’d looked insulted and asked “Don’t you people have  _magic!_ ” Then she stepped out without John, and came back ten minutes later with much better stuff. Showed them the old joint, just to prove she hadn’t transmuted it–though John would have been impressed either way. No, Zatanna had teleported all the way from New York to San Francisco for weed. It was like going to Switzerland to buy chocolate. Or Amsterdam to buy pot chocolate.

What wasn’t to like about so much rebellion in such a tiny girl?

Except now that Zee has nothing to rebel against, the fight’s gone out of her. That more than anything makes John feel bad. And when John feels bad, he overcompensates by thinking that at least he’s not doing it to get under her skirt.

Thus, the subject matter:

“It wasn’t  _really_  predicting Reagan’s botched assassination,” John insists. “It wasn’t predicting  _anything_. I know what the arse said. He said ‘A great leader will fall.’ He didn’t say it was Reagan–which is the first cheat, and a  _bloody obvious one_. Every ten seconds, there’s an assassination attempt somewhere in the world. He didn’t even say how long the leader would stay down. That’s not even cold reading, that’s  _vague_  reading. And shitty stuff, too. Pythia! Now  _there_  was a master of vague reading.” He eyes Zatanna, who doesn’t react. To be fair, he corrects himself. “Well, mistress.”

“How did Pythia…” Zatanna’s voice scratches, and she coughs into her hand. The spirit follows in her father’s footsteps, but her throat and liver are a few steps behind. “P-predict what Croesus was eating for breakfast?”

“Tell you a secret, love.” John leans over his knees. “She asked.”

And Zatanna scoffs. “The messenger wouldn’t have  _told_  her, John.”

“Did I say it was the messenger?”

“How… would anyone around the Oracle of Delphi know what… s-some random, foreign  _asshole_  ate for breakfast?” Ah, Zatanna is well drunk if she’s being mean.

“Love, you’ve got a democracy over here, but I can tell you: People do obsess over what the Queen’s eaten for breakfast. And you could set a clock to their menu changes. You tell me it wasn’t exactly the same way thousands of years ago for royalty that actually did things. All Pythia had to do was duck out on some mystical excuse and make small talk with some bloke off the street whose cousin knows a guy in Croesus’ part of Greece… or some shit like that. Then she pops back in, gets herself just a bit high, and does some smoke and mirrors bollocks for the messenger. Boom. Pythia’s got a reputation.”

Zatanna hiccups faintly. John’s people-reading skills are useless on hiccups.

“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t clever, though,” John admits. “At least Pythia made sure her facts were straight. The average idiot can’t spend ten seconds checking Snopes. If you can fool people just a step above that, that’s some good conning for you. One shot, Zee–I bet you one shot that those other oracles were average idiots.”

Zatanna gives a breathy laugh. “We can’t even verify that, John.”

“Well then, I guess we’ll both have to drink.” Zatanna’s hand shakes so much that if the bottle wasn’t half empty, she’d spill something. John takes it from her. “Never mind, love, you’ve had enough.”

Zatanna tugs at the bottle, voice thick. “I can’t go home.”

“I’ll give you a lift.” Probably with magic. It’s not like drunk teleporting is safer than drunk driving, but at least they won’t get arrested.

“John!”

Zatanna spills forward on her hands and knees. John sends the whiskey back to the fridge. “Nope, no more of this.”

“I m-meant, really, I can’t go home–” Zatanna falls back into a rough sitting position, clutching herself. “I  _can’t_. It’s a magic house. My dad can’t let me in, but he’s not dead either, so I have to be eighteen and then I have to usurp Shadowcrest. I talked to Batman about it.”

“Usurp…?”

“Yup. Thanks to the wonders of magical inheritance bylaws… I have to usurp my own  _house_  from my own  _father._ ” Zatanna wipes her tears away as words spill out of her mouth. “Not that he’d mind, but–in the meantime I can’t live in Shadowcrest, or stay in anyone else’s house because it might count as adoption or marriage or whatever. I just… wouldn’t legally be part of the family anymore.”

So be part of the family or be homeless just for a little while. “But you can use blood to get around that, can’t you?”

“My family’s magic is based on words. We don’t want to–” Zatanna stops. “I don’t want to take the chance because I don’t know what would happen if I tried to come in without the last name Zatara, or someone in the family to invite me.”

“You could try it with a married aunt, then,” John says. “Or an actor or a spy. Someone who changed their name.” Zatanna tosses back what little whiskey she’d poured for herself. “Haven’t you told your family?”

“I don’t know what to say!” This is when Zatanna devotes herself entirely to wallowing in self-pity, and John doesn’t have the heart to stop her. She curls into his lap, babbling. “They’ll take the house. They love me, but they just–want the house. Everyone does. It’s just my dad is the oldest.”

_Don’t say 'was’. Don’t focus on how nice her hair feels scrunched in your fingers, don’t–_

“Right. So your family doesn’t know anything yet.”

“They might. My uncle Cristiano is an empath.”

“Even better. They can feel, but they won’t  _know_  anything.”

Zatanna blinks slowly and draws away from him. “You want me to… lie to my family.”

John knows the irrational lines people can draw when it comes to family or friends. He doesn’t want his sister or her boyfriend to be involved with the shit he does, and he keeps Chas out of things as much as he can. “Not  _lie_ ,” John says. “But you can leave out some parts of the truth. Like how your dad’s not technically dead. And how you’re not technically owner of the house.”

“That’s lying by omission,” Zatanna snaps.

“Well, what would one of your aunts or uncles even do if they heard? Take the house, let you stay out of the kindness of their hearts, hold it over your head for the rest of your life?” From the look on Zatanna’s face, John’s not far from the mark. If they’re anything like the Mafia, he feels sorry for Zatanna. “Two years isn’t a long time when it comes to houses. Just tell them your dad’s not coming back, make it look like you live in the house, and keep your usurping quiet. They won’t notice a thing.”

“They’ll notice if I don’t invite them to the house at least once in two years.”

“So invite them,” John says. “But don’t let them get to the house.”

“H-how…?”

“Be unpleasant–I know, Zee, that’s difficult for you–or just scare them off… Actually, that’s more difficult. Never mind!” He bundles his arm around her. “It’s hopeless. You’re just too sweet. The whole Zatara clan will flock to their despondent little matriarch and dry her tears. Even Zack the idiot. And the jig will be up.”

She laughs, just a bit. “Sh-shut up, John.” Then she buries her head in his chest.

“So where are you going to live if you can’t go to the house?”

“I can take my things  _out,_ ” Zatanna drones bitterly. Of course, the spell doubles as a faceless landlord. Most landlords are tossers. “I can stay at a hotel or a dorm or any public shared space. It’s private spaces that I can’t stay in.”

“For how long?” John eyes his wrist. He lost his watch somewhere, but the thought counts.

“It’s not how long.” She sighs and recites dully. “I may not eat a meal, then go to sleep, then wake up in the same private household which isn’t mine. Else I will relinquish Shadowcrest as a home, and the usurping of my own  _house_ … from my own  _father,_  will be even harder to do.”

Plenty of loopholes in those rules. Don’t stay after dinner. Have someone shuttle her out if she falls asleep. But also plenty of room for exploiting those rules. Like what constitutes a meal? She could have a cookie and then doze off and there goes the house.

“So you’ll stay out extra late for two years, eh?” She stomps the joke flat by crying. “No no, love, don’t do that. I’m sorry–”

“It’s just hard to feel excited when I could lose my house by eating a cracker and taking a nap!” Zatanna sobs. “That is  _exactly_  how some jackass would do it!”

“What?” John hopes he hadn’t thought that last thing about exploiting rules too hard. He runs a hand through Zatanna’s hair to try and get her to stop crying, but all it does is lower the levels to dull sniffing. “Hey, no, that’s… extremely paranoid of you. I’m shocked, really.”

“I just came back from three hours of deciphering magical binding contracts with Batman. It rubs off.”

“Mmhmm.” John looks down. “Wait. You talked to Batman?”

“He offered to adopt me.”

John would find it a hard choice between taking the family home or being related to Batman.

“Instead he helped me work out the specifics of my magical inheritance, which he said was basically the same as normal inheritance. And just as petty. As long as I’m aware of the rules, I can work around them.”

“Specifics?” John asks. “Is Batman a lawyer?”

“I don’t know.” She nods against him. “What time is it?”

“'Bout three.”

“I think I’m falling asleep. Take me to Shadowcrest before I wake up. I… I need to pack and do stuff in the morning. So it gets the message that I’m…” She swallows. “Not staying.”

“Right, love.”

She collapses right away into a fitful doze. John magicks his coat on, scoops Zatanna up and gets out the door before she wakes. The door locks with a word from him. He sets her down in the hallway to pluck a strand of hair and scry. Shadowcrest moves on its own, as magical houses are wont to do, and he doesn’t want to do a lot of running around.

 

\- - -

 

John’s snuck onto the grounds a few times and felt smug that he could do it. It’s an old house with old wards. But having Zatanna makes walking so much easier. The door is difficult, though, seeing as he’s never been to it. There’s no lock or doorknob. He taps at it, trying to figure out what incantation will open it from the outside. There are whispers of things people have said in front of the door, and Shadowcrest recognizes 'the master’s daughter’, but John can’t make out anything.

A dusty voice calls, “Signorina!” The door swings to reveal a mummy shambling down the hallway. It starts what sounds like a stern lecture in Italian, until it sees John and gets miffed. “Excuse me, young sir. What are  _you_  doing with Miss Zatanna?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I got on the grounds, then?”

“The same way you climbed to her window the other times.” The mummy sniffs. “Miss Zatanna allows you.” It extends its bandaged arms for Zatanna, and John finds himself instinctively reluctant to just  _give_  a sleeping girl to a mummified corpse. It feels too damn much like a virgin sacrifice. “It is far past Miss Zatanna’s usual curfew. Take care that I do not tell the master upon his return, you scoundrel.”

“Yeah…” John clears his throat, and hands Zatanna over. “About the master.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted on tumblr a while ago. I decided to repost it here for the sake of convenience even though it's my most obscure fic because, well, I'm fond of Constantine. As written in original Hellblazer comics. And also Justice League Dark solely for the John/Zee relationship dynamic. Not so much the TV series or the reboot of Hellblazer (although Casually Bi Polyamorous Constantine is AWESOME).
> 
> \- I started this around 10PM. It was 3:30AM when I finished this. I’ve run it over a couple of times but it is not beta-read. This is why the romance is awful. I start out thinking “Okay I want charming young Constantine after Zee’s dad sort of dies” and then “the Oracle of Delphi was a fraud, also Zatanna is homeless, also can we work in the mummy guarding Zatanna’s house HOLY SHIT IT’S 3:30”
> 
> \- Seriously, I love Justice League Dark. John is so fucking in love with Zatanna. It’s not subtle at all! And Zee alternates between still being in love with him and being conflicted because of bad events, and it’s GLORIOUS. Exceeeeeept for Zee’s outfits. They need a new costume artist.
> 
> \- I admit that John is much more charming and playful than his usual characterization, but this is him as a teenager. He was in a band, and also had a brief stint as a stage magician, so I decided John would bank on his charisma to cover up his lack of formal training. Also, he just wasn’t as beaten down by the world.
> 
> \- In Hellblazer, John predicted the assassination attempt on Reagan and got famous for it. But since I made him close to Zee’s age, he’s just nerdy about historical con artists who pretend to be magicians. Which is funny because he’s a real magician who sometimes pretends to be a fake magician pretending to be a real magician.
> 
> \- As for the weed, Zatanna literally goes to John’s birthday party and smokes a joint with him in 'Forty'. So, it’s Vertigo’s fault. (Yay, Vertigo!)
> 
> \- John tends to use blood or hair or other body parts in spells, which makes him a specialist in sympathetic magic. His bloodline is also well-versed in synchronicity, which is sensing connections between things, and he tends to have gut feelings. I took this to mean that John has some background level of empathy which makes him very good at reading people, or even using their magic. It’s good for disguises, or improvising, but it’s also pretty chaotic and disorganized.
> 
> \- John asking if Batman is a lawyer is a nod to Harvey Dent claiming he was Batman in “The Dark Knight Saga”. Also, Batman is apparently John’s favorite superhero.
> 
> \- Giovanni suffered from alcoholism after the death of Sindella. So, I gave Zatanna a bit of a bad roll on the genetic dice.
> 
> \- Does ANYONE ELSE THINK young Zatanna would immediately like a slightly older boy from the wrong side of the tracks who does what he wants without worrying about it. ANYONE ELSE? Catholic school, stage magic, and the Zatara style of backwards magic all focus on order, logic, and repetition, which would get stuffy for anyone remotely as passionate as Zee, JUST SAYING. Also, in this universe John doesn’t accidentally kill Zatanna’s dad. So that’s a plus!
> 
> \- The mummy is Hassan, a guardian of Shadowcrest. He speaks only once, and in hieroglyphics. But the house is owned by an Italian-American family, so I just took liberties. I imagine he looks like Rami Malek under the bandages.


	2. In Which John Constantine Bullies Time and Space to Uphold a Massive Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zatanna invites her family to the house she doesn’t quite own. Her backup is John Constantine, who attends the reunion in secret. For immoral support.

On the day Zatanna needs to send out invitations to the family reunion, she doesn’t want to lie in front of security cameras which Batman scrutinizes. Or wherever her teammates might hear. So that leaves John’s place. He doesn’t mind. He can think something to her if she gets stuck.

“Hi, Aunt Immaculata! It’s almost time for the family reunion at Shadowcrest–” John slings an arm around her shoulders so he can hear. “Ahh–John!” Zatanna swats him away and puts her cell phone on speaker. She holds a finger to her lips as warning. John thinks an apology.

“Who is John, dear?”

“Um, John? What do you mean?”

“You said ‘John’, si? Is he a new servant?”

“I–I said–” Zatanna laughs brightly while glaring at John, far too well for his taste. “I said  _Hassan_ , Auntie. You know how he gets. Turns a corner and trips over his bandages.”

A bark of laughter from the end of the phone. “How is the house, Zatanna?”

“ _Good_ , good!” Zatanna insists. “Good. Yes.”

The seeds of doubt are planted in the silence. “Are you sure?”

“Well, um… there was a  _tiny_  mishap.” Zatanna clears her throat. “It turns out the silverware don’t enjoy the…  _communal_  nature of dishwashers–”

John raises an eyebrow. She has a mummified butler and sentient dishware?

“Dishwasher? I thought you said there were no new servants.”

“It’s a machine, Auntie. Not a person.”

“A machine? Zatanna Zatara, you know you cannot bring in modern kitchenware! The family dishes will revolt! They despise change!”

“Yes, I realize that now! So, until they’ve stopped the strike, we’ll have to make do with normal dishware at the family reunion.”

“You brought in more?!”

“No! Not at all! See, Auntie--while we get everything sorted out in the house, I’m going to put out some long tables and a pavilion on the grounds and we’ll have an outdoor reunion.”

“Ahhhh,” her aunt says. “The traditional furniture will not revolt if the modern furniture is not in the house. Such a clever girl, Zatanna!”

“Thanks, Auntie!” Zatanna heaves a incredibly huge, incredibly fake sigh of relief. “But, ah, could you do me a favor? Please don’t tell anyone about the furniture. Please!” She turns on the fake waterworks. “It’s my first reunion, and I’d–just be so– _embarrassed_ –”

“Ma bene, Zatanna! My lips are sealed!” Of course that means the whole family will know before the day’s out. Someone yells on the other side and there’s a clatter. “Oh, the stove! It was very nice speaking to you, sweetheart. I’ll be at the reunion with your uncle and cousins. We’ll be so happy to see you!”

“ _I’ll_  be so happy to see  _youuuu_!” The funniest part is how Zee puts a hand to her chest as if her aunt could see it. “Say hi to Zack for me!" They make kissy sounds and exchange incredibly warm, incredibly fake 'ciao’s. John rolls his eyes. Zatanna hangs up and rubs the bridge of her nose.

"That was a bloody massive lie for someone who doesn’t like lying to her family.”

“Don’t get smug, John. Once I sobered up, I realized I actually lie pretty often just to be polite to the family I don’t like.” Zatanna sighs. “I tell you this so you won’t think you’ve corrupted me. And I still don’t like the thought of lying to the people I do like.”

“I like it when you tell massive lies. It’s sexy.”

\- - -

Problem one with the massive lie: Zatanna’s family is also massive. And loud. And she can’t keep a watch on everyone at all times.

Problem two: Members who are in the loop will definitely want to sneak in and assess the wreckage for themselves.

Problem three: Members who have no idea about the fake story will want to enter the house for a completely innocent reason. So, Zatanna needs someone at the family reunion to cover for her, who is both supportive of her claim to the house, and a damn good liar. Or at least a shameless liar. John irons out his only suit and tie and skulks about the hedges, as immoral support.

John realizes halfway through his first hour that suits are not appropriate to wear while skulking about. Even magical dirt for magical hedges gets on normal suits just fine. And since nobody sees him, he didn’t even need to dress up in the first place. And he can’t smoke because smoke rises. That one just bites.

However, he does learn something interesting: The innocent ones are wearing nice, new, impractical shoes, while the nosy bastards are wearing comfortable, soft, quiet shoes which are perfect for skulking about.

They head off the innocents by saying the house sprung a leak just before the reunion, and as Zatanna only stopped Shadowcrest from filling up slowly with water in the nick of time, it would take a while to get everything cleaned up. Large, colorful tents have been set up for people who want shade or restrooms, food is being catered courtesy of Wayne something or other, and blah blah blah.

Which leaves the nosy bastards.

Zatanna bursts in on them to play the innocent young hostess when she can. When she can’t, it’s up to John to dissuade them by pretending to be Shadowcrest enforcing its mistress’ will. Usually John just turns them around, and then Zatanna teleports there to request, “Please don’t go into the house, someone could get hurt.” And they’re convinced, because they’re all magicians here.

And then, as usually happens when things are going nice and smooth, Zatanna breaks the calm with a telepathic shriek:

_JohnJohnJohnJohn **JOHN!**  Someone’s heading for the door and I’m too far to stop them!_

John bolts to the nearest window by way of a convenient tesseract. The house protests John’s bullying of time and space, but he pries the sill up and scrambles over. After a bit more bullying the corridors in ways that would make Escher proud, John is in the entrance hall.

“Thank you, Madeleine L'Engle.”

He still has to catch his breath because of all the dust in the house. After a good sneezing fit, he leans against a convenient (if dusty) table. The woman who opens the door is trim and pretty, but too old to be a cousin. And she’s wearing suspiciously sensible shoes for someone in a fancy silk dress.

“Excuse me, I just wanted to…” She tries to move around him, but John steps to the side. “Excuse me! Who are you?”

“The new potwasher.”  _Bloody hell, why did I say that?!_

“Zatanna said she brought in a machine.”

“She did.” John puts on his most charming, lopsided grin. Mostly to hide how he has no idea where this conversation is going.

“Why would a dishwashing machine turn into a human?”

He’d meant 'Zatanna did  _say_  she brought in a machine’, but as they’re all magicians here, John realizes either one is equally likely. Time to pull some emotional strings. “The question is, how do you know what Zatanna said? If my memory’s correct, she told Immaculata not to tell anyone.”

“I–it just–” She gasps and claps a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.” She turns around, ducking her head as she stumbles down the steps in her comfortable shoes.

John laughs, and too late notices a bunch of women in nice dresses and men in razor-sharp suits gawping. Then a dark shadow falls in front of him and someone grabs him by the collar. The collar of his suit was not meant to withstand any weight whatsoever and rips off. John’s shins only escape a horrible accident when bandaged hands grab him under both arms.

“YOU!” Hassan roars. “How dare you!”

“Mate, you don’t understand,  _I’m trying to **help**  Zatanna_–!” The mummy throws him out. John soars over the steps to land with an undignified thump on the thankfully plush grass and sod. He still doesn’t like the mouthful of dirt. “Pluh–yeck–!”

“What happened?” Zatanna weaves through the crowd to find John. “Oh my god! Are you okay?” She kneels and makes eye contact.

“Oh, totally! Just got thrown out by your arse of a butler, I did.”

 _I’m the potwasher,_  John thinks in a furious whisper.  _Turned into a human, for… some reason. Run with it, love._

“This is, um, my boyfriend,” Zatanna says. “My most definitely human boyfriend who you don’t need to know much about, we’ll introduce him at the table. Naelc pu.” The dirt disappears and John’s suit mends itself. She brushes him off anyway. “Let’s have some dessert, shall we!”

Zatanna marches off, dragging John by the arm, until a throat is cleared and someone speaks up.

“We know about the silverware, Zatanna.”

Zatanna whirls, hair flying behind her dramatically, to find Immaculata in the crowd. “You told everyone?! Auntie, how could you!”

\- - -

Everyone stays well away from the house and sings Zatanna’s praises as hostess, in apology for being nosy, gossipy bastards. The rest of the dinner goes off… quite well, actually.

At first it was unsettling, the number of drunken aunts and cousins (and some uncles and male cousins) hitting on him. They can’t have all forgotten that he was supposed to be a machine turned human. But then, the less drunk family members start asking uncomfortable questions like “Why did an American dishwasher turn into an Englishman?” or “His aura is incredibly human. Too human, if you ask me–” and John and Zatanna decide via telepathy that they’d much rather take the drunken flirting.

So Zatanna strides to the head of the longest table, clinks her glass, and says “Spells which turn machines into humans are very strong, complex, finicky things and I really would appreciate it if you left the poor guy… thing… alone, because if you pry too hard–” She sells this with a pointed glance into the crowd. “We’re all a little bit drunk here, let’s admit it. The shapeshifting spell might backfire. We don’t want that to happen!”

“Yeah, god forbid I turn into an oven.” John lifts his glass. “Or any of you lot turn into spoons.”

So John is mostly left alone in terms of uncomfortable questions and unwanted flirting, Zatanna hosts the shit out of the reunion, and they can both actually enjoy dinner. Up till the point where Zatanna says, “John, can you pass the Merlot?”

He doesn’t blame Zee. Much.

“John?” The old man next to her stirs from his wine-induced nap. “Why did you name the dishwasher, Zatanna?”

“Well… um… I thought I’d be nice, Uncle. It’s nicer to call him an actual name instead of It. And… to be honest, I’d thought of a name when I was still trying to convince you he was human. Why waste it?” Zatanna smiles, then stares at the Merlot with a burning desire that makes John want to keep the bottle as long as possible and pretend she’s staring at him that way.

“You want to be nice to a  _machine._ ”

Mood killed. John hands Zatanna the Merlot and snarks at the uncle. “You say that like a dozen other members of your family haven’t  _hit on me!_ ” Him, personally? He’d buy that Zee would want to be nice to a machine. “Here’s a thought: What if I don’t bloody  _like_  people? Zatanna excluded.”

The uncle raises an eyebrow.

“Not that I, ahem, like her that way. She’s pretty. For a human. I have learned a lot about human aesthetics and this thing you call emotion which allows me to appreciate it. But Zatanna’s not my type. I always thought I’d settle down with a nice… sink.”

The uncle raises the other eyebrow.

“ _I mean!_ ” Zatanna says loudly, “Shadowcrest is halfway alive, Uncle! Who’s to say John here hasn’t gained a little sentience on his own?”

“Yeah, and currently your halfway alive house hates me.” John scowls at the house, which broods back at him from behind the pavilions and ice sculptures and cultured hedges. “All 'cause I was just doing me damn job.”

“If walls could talk,” the uncle says, and bursts out laughing. “Ha! If dishwashers could talk! Maybe I should be nicer to my car.”

John refuses to laugh with someone who thought Zatanna shouldn’t be nice to him. Even though he’s right. Zatanna  _shouldn’t_  be nice to John. But she shouldn’t do a lot of things, and it’s no one else’s business how she decides to ruin her life.

Zatanna nods frantically and laughs a little bit higher than normal, then pours herself a very full glass of wine. John feels like telling her to stop, but after the day she’s had and how John just had a moral epiphany on how he shouldn’t tell Zatanna how to ruin her life, she deserves a stiff drink.

\- - -

When the ice swans are dripping all over the place, and the last designated teleporters take their families home, John shakes Zatanna. She doesn’t stir from her doze. Her total wine intake is about ten glasses, which is a bit much in one night for a very tiny, very stressed out seventeen year old witch.

John hasn’t drunk anything. Or smoked. Which is just as well because that would make teleporting away quite dangerous. He picks Zatanna up, careful not to snag her yellow tissue dress. He doesn’t know where she lives now. But there’s no need to ask. John winds his way out of Shadowcrest, feeling for the trail of energy left behind, and finds a mountain. There are wards which don’t allow teleporting straight in, which makes sense.

Too late, he notices a long shadow with pointed ears, and whips around to find pretty much the same long shadow with pointed ears behind him. “Thank you for bringing Zatanna back.”

It’s Batman. John is talking to  _Batman_. “I’m–I–uhhh–” Oh,  _now_  his mouth stalls for a second.

Batman holds his arms out for Zatanna and asks, as casually as a gravel-voiced specter of the night can ask: “How was the reunion?”

“Her family’s convinced that she’s the rightful owner,” John says, falling on habit. “Not a  _good_  one, I mean they’re also convinced that the silverware is rioting and I’m a potwasher turned human.”

“Ah.” And Batman nods like it’s completely logical.

“And people kept hitting on me despite knowing that.” Too late, John realizes that he has no idea whether Zatanna actually told Batman about the reunion or not. Worse, John’s been snitching about it!

“Despite  _believing_  that,” Batman corrects him. “Belief can be erroneous. Knowledge cannot.”

Not only can Batman get the jump on John, but he’s a grammar stodge. John glares. “Excuse me–did I ask you for a lesson on semantics?”

“If a group of very powerful magicians  _believe_  you are a dishwasher turned human, you are well within your rights to remain human. If a group of very powerful magicians  _know_  that you are a dishwasher turned human, you may start remembering your life a bit differently.” That’s not unsettling at all. “Do you want to remain human, John Constantine?”

John’s mouth drops. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Then watch what you say.” Unspoken:  _I know where you’ve been. I know your name. I can learn other things–if I don’t know them already._

John gives him Zatanna.

When he’s back home, he looks around. Very thoroughly. Then he takes out a smoke and lights up. John is both still awake and completely sober at one in the morning. Batman is probably a lawyer who is stalking John. In a bad way. The world sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really weird mix of Diana Wynne Jones’ rapidfire comedic dialogue, with shout outs to Madeleine L'Engle’s science-fantasy. And my young!John is just turning out to be this diamond-in-the-rough style cute giant nerd, hahahahaha


	3. ladies in red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zatanna’s ownership of Shadowcrest has been restored and she is no longer homeless. A good day’s work for John. But the night brings something different. A prophecy.

_“So how does one usurp a magical house, Zee? Sounds like a riddle for the ages.”_

_“It’s not. Just walk in without knocking.”_

 Zatanna presses the door with a fingertip, and it swings open. She stands over the threshold for a good minute, but neither a stuffy old mummy nor an animate piece of silver nor whatever else is sentient in the house comes to greet her. Zatanna reaches back and John holds her trembling hand. They step in, and the door gapes for a moment until Zatanna shuts it–like an ordinary door. A cloud of dust, a shade less than three years’ worth, puffs up with every footstep. Zatanna clings to John, and he lets her, because Shadowcrest has always scared him at least a little.

_“Make a meal, eat that meal…”_

Whispers rattle the silverware drawer as Zatanna pulls, and it sounds like a man with silver teeth saying ‘the master’s daughter’. But they don’t say anything else as Zatanna takes out the wooden spoon and puts some water on to boil. The mortar and pestle do not protest as she grinds pine nuts and dried tomatoes for pesto. Just a few teaspoons takes twenty minutes. It’s a scene of terrifying normality in a house not known for anything of the sort.

While the pasta drains, steaming, in a colander, Zatanna looks at John. He shakes his head, because the house’s dislike of John has grown to be reciprocated. Zatanna plates up a bowl for herself, tastes the red sauce with a finger, and dabs it onto her pasta. John follows her to the dining room. For moral support. 

_“Go to sleep in la camera grande…”_

The silence is deafening as they trail from the dining room to the master bedroom. Zatanna opens the door without magic, and closes it without magic.

John hears a heavy whoosh as Zatanna shakes something out. And then she starts crying and John opens the door. There’s a man’s tuxedo, impeccable under its dust, rumpled on the floor where Zatanna tossed it. John stands and holds her until the crying stops. Then Zatanna wipes her face on a sleeve and brushes the dust off the quilt before she crawls under the blanket. John pulls up a chair and watches as she meditates herself to sleep.

_“Wake up in la camera grande. The usual.”_

When Zatanna opens her eyes about half an hour later, the house stops holding its breath. All the dust vanishes. John sneezes out of surprise. The suit picks itself up and fusses with the lapels before patting Zatanna on the shoulder and walking to the wardrobe. Then, a gauze-covered fist bangs on the door. Zatanna laughs and jumps off the bed. The door is thrown open by John’s least favorite mummified butler, and behind him a marble pegasus stomps its foot. Zatanna rushes to hug them both.

“Hassan! Pelagiya!” 

\- - -

A knock at the door reveals Zatanna in a red shirt. Or, as John notices when he looks down, a red shirt-dress with the sleeves rolled up. John appreciates the sight until he looks at her eyes again. They're clear of mascara and eyeliner and that means she's been crying.

“What’s the visit for, Zee?”

“Oh, it’s funny. I spent two years doing my best to keep my house, and now I just want to hang somewhere else.”

She gives a half-smile and playful shrug, but an image flashes into John’s head, a glance from his third eye–'master’s daughter.’ The suit on the floor. The whole thing wasn’t two days past, and she’d cried as if her heart had split open–again.

John understands. He trails a hand in her long dark hair. She’s taken to curling it, which looks nice, but snags something awful. “You want some coffee?” 

Zatanna falls easily back into habit. “Yeah. Please.”

“I don’t have any,” he admits. “Sorry.”

“You tease.”

“What? For that?” John smirks. “Love, you haven’t  _seen_  me be a tease.”

\- - - 

Zatanna lies with her chin slack against his shoulder, sliding like a rag doll when John shakes her. Her hair, knotted with sweat, smells like him now. Cigarettes and stale beer. He works fast out of habit, dressing Zatanna with a spell he’s never used before, then picking her up and following her link to Shadowcrest. Now that she’s the owner, it’s less of a single thread glowing in the dark, and more like a rope. Much clearer. John simply takes a hold of it and uses a tesseract to reach New Orleans. 

But nearly to the gate, he forgets that Zatanna being the rightful owner of Shadowcrest means he could have just let Zatanna stay the night.

He's distracted by the lady waiting for them. Statuesque figure, taller than John, draped in clinging red silk, and long dark hair tied with gold chains. She stands unmoving in his way. Seer’s eyes, large and beautiful, glazed with future sight.

John thinks a bit. He looks down, at Zatanna’s diminutive form. Strange, the difference between one ravenhaired beauty in red and another. Zatanna’s full of magic, and he can admit it’s more power than he has. But she’s  _normal_ , if you can get past the talking silverware and grumpy house. You’d never know she wasn’t human until she said so.

The lady in front of them stares on. She reeks of old magic, much older than the vague early-thirties she appears to be. Maybe drugs. Or illness. Either way, she’s got a lot of power and seems unstable enough that if John asked what she was doing here, she might not know either. Should John say hello and ask if she’s feeling well? Be polite to the possible goddess or fae and hope he receives a gift in return? Or maybe he should keep his head down and hope she doesn’t notice him. John’s awful with both human and inhuman etiquette, but he knows there is something about immortals that one should never do…

_You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention._

Ah. John tries to relax as he tiptoes around the sorceress and behind her, to the gate he’s never been able to open. The magic words are just 'gate open’ backwards… but how did Zatanna say it, exactly?

“John Constantine.”

It’s accented, in a vague manner, but unmistakable. John turns his head, and the lady is facing them. He hadn’t heard her turn around. He’d know if she had. He looks down and no shadow grows from her feet. John laughs casually (even though only true laughter has any power) and clutches Zatanna tighter. Maybe she’ll wake up and know who or what they’re talking to.

“So–” His voice breaks and he clears it. “So, I’ve got a reputation now, haven’t I?”

First Batman knows his name without being told, and now… Her. Except John has the comfort of knowing that there are hundreds of other people who got the shit scared  _and_  beaten out of them by Batman. Also, the comfort of knowing what Batman is called. Names are advantages in magic. Beings who know your name without letting off theirs, not even a title, are the most dangerous kind.

“One day…” the lady murmurs, as gentle as her back and forth sway. Like rhythmic meditation. Or a junkie. But gentle means nothing. A serial killer can be as gentle as they please just before the knife sinks in.

“I meet a tall dark handsome man?” That’s already happened, but it’s not like John is a stranger to cheating.

“One day, Zatanna will hate you as much as she loves you.”

Right. Not a vague reader, this one.

“I do that to a lot of girls,” John says. It still stings, though. “And some boys.”

“Yours will be the hand that kills Zatanna.”

“I…?” John looks down at Zatanna, throat thick. Then he hisses, “Sleep!” Zatanna mumbles something. John looks at the sorceress, seething, hoping she doesn’t notice his eyes welling up. Fuck being polite. “Listen, lady– _nobody asked **you!**_ ”

“No one asks for the truth. Or the future. They simply are.” She observes him and her eyes soften. “You are much younger than I had seen. I am sorry.”

“Stuff it! You think that  _helps?!_ ”

“If you desire help…” She stretches out a hand, and suddenly she’s close enough that her long nails almost reach his forehead. “I may remove the memory.”

John howls and backs into the gate with a clang of the wrought black spikes and chains. It might have come out as actual words like 'Leave me alone!’ or 'Haven’t you ruined my life enough already!’

A soft sigh, and the lady teleports away. Whether it was John’s reaction or the cold iron of the gate, or both, she’d gotten the message. Small mercies are useless to people with prophecies. John stands in the dark, shaking like a drunk, until he’s plucked back enough of his nerve to finish what he’s started. He shakes Zatanna and puts magic behind it when he says, “Wake up.”

But Zatanna doesn’t wake up. John nearly panics, till he remembers standard protocol for breaking spells on sleeping women. He wipes his face off, then gathers her close enough to kiss.

She opens her eyes, tries to stretch, then yelps and clutches him around the neck. “John! Warn me before you drop me on the ground!”

“Well, excuse a bloke for trying to take you home after a long day.” He lowers her knees first, unwinds her wrists from around his neck. “Go on, then.”

“Thanks, John.” Zatanna stretches to kiss him and John lets her. But she frowns. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah…” He nudges her away. “But, you know, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” She looks him in the eye. “But if you need help–”

“I don’t. Just take care of yourself, love.”

Nodding, Zatanna yawns and turns away. The gate swings open for her, and the lights come on as a greeting from the house to its mistress. And John is left in the night outside. His chest warps as he watches Zatanna’s silhouette disintegrate into the doorway, as the gate swings shut. Yeah, without so much as a how d'you do to the bloke who helped it stay with Zatanna.

John wants nothing more than to forget the damn prophecy and get on with his life. He takes out a match with shaking hands, and it slips and falls onto the ground, a bright red ember in the dark.

“Oh.” John glares. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

He stamps it out and wanders off. It’s cold. When John doesn’t smoke, he’s so cold. He pulls his coat tighter, even turns up the collar, but John can feel the house pulsing behind him and it doesn’t help at all.

John turns on a heel and heads back to Shadowcrest, fighting the urge to kick the damn gate he couldn’t open. Why did he even try so hard to help Zatanna? Two years, and a bad prophecy comes to ruin everything. John’s not Noah, he’s one of the poor sods who got caught in the flash flood. No–-Zatanna’s one of the poor sods, and John’s the man who made God decide to do it. Kill off humanity and start fresh. It would have been better for both of them, much better if John thought of Zatanna as just–-another–-

No, he admits. No, it wouldn’t. What’s said is said.

John kisses his hand and sets it to the gate.

“Zatanna.”

When he lets go, he sees a fingerprint on the black iron bar, pulsing light like some poorly shaped, scuddy moon. That’s John, all right. Then Shadowcrest is the east, and Zatanna is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. If not, it might happen the other way 'round, and nobody wants that to happen. Especially not the moon.

“Don’t forget me.”

\- - -

_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like i had to put in something from justice league dark since madame xanadu is in young justice for like three seconds. the prophecy is from justice league dark. but it’s not really a spoiler since NOTHING’S HAPPENED WITH IT YET. there are smatterings of references everywhere. like 'the last unicorn’ and various folklore/religion. um, and shakespeare. john just seems like he'd be a fan due to the wordplay and sex jokes. also zee’s red shirt-dress is from the infamous birthday party.


End file.
